


Breathless

by Geist



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Arguing, Asphyxiation, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Candles, Crying, Cunnilingus, Dancing, F/M, Fingerfucking, Honeymoon, Kissing, Love, Makeup Sex, Marriage, Married Couple, Married Sex, Mile High Club, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Spooning, Vaginal Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geist/pseuds/Geist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Rose's wedding is a dream, their honeymoon a paradise. Their married life is normal, and normality bores Rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> The type of breathplay described in this story is extremely dangerous, and should only be practiced with a partner if you are both completely cognizant of the dangers and ways to mitigate those dangers. A useful resource is available at http://www.londonfetishscene.com/wipi/index.php/Breath_control:_Safety.
> 
> Do not attempt autoerotic asphyxiation. It is an embarrassing way to die.
> 
> Weddings are safe under carefully controlled conditions. A free bar at the reception is recommended.

Their wedding had been like a dream. Rose remembered crying with happiness while John stood by her side. He wasn't able to stop smiling, though his emotions threatened to to overwhelm him the entire time too. Luckily, Rose had gotten control of herself and nudged him in the ribs before he started bawling, and they'd both faced the photographer with the joy in their hearts written on their faces. Rose threw the bouquet, and Jade caught it. The sly grin she shot at Dave went unnoticed by him.

Dave was the best man, and he gave a speech that was typically laconic. Not everyone understood his jokes, but they laughed anyway, which put him one up on most wedding reception speakers.

John and Rose's attentions wandered after that. They weren't able to keep their eyes off each other or their hands apart, and they shared kisses between themselves them more often than they did pleasantries with their guests. They eagerly listened for the band to announce the songs they'd chosen for their bride and groom dances. Those were whole, uninterrupted, precious minutes that they could spend just being close. All eyes had been on them, but there had been no question of embarrassment or awkwardness. It had just been them and the music every time.

The free bar did its work, the band packed up and Dave took over as DJ. The party had become self-sustaining: the newly-weds as catalysts surplus to requirements. They left to a hail of cheers, waves and catcalls in a car that trailed the traditional tin cans and horseshoes. With them gone, the guests went back into the reception hall with the intention of drinking every last drop of alcohol they could find and picking the buffet to the bone.

The car took John and Rose to her house, where they and some of their guests were to stay the night. The chauffeur bid them good night, and they went inside and up to her room.

They'd euphemistically slept together dozens of times before. John helped Rose out of her dress, which she carefully placed back on the dressmaker's dummy where it had hung earlier that day. Slightly less carefully, he stripped off his suit put it in its back. They stood admiring each other in their underwear, and found that this time they didn't feel the need to. At first they panicked, wondering whether their marriage had already killed their passion, but then they'd realized that no, that night their love was purer and higher than it had ever been before. They didn't need base physicality to validate it. They'd climbed into bed and slept together.

Their honeymoon was like the moment between sleep and waking. Their physical attraction returned almost the instant they got out of bed, and they kissed long and hard, letting their hands rove over each other's bodies. Consummation had to wait, though. There was a plane to catch. Rose packed her wedding dress into her suitcase while John took a shower. She declined to join him when she was done, taking a separate one to avoid the kind of temptation that caused missed flights. When they were both ready, they stole downstairs, past crashed-out guests in various states of hangover, out the front door, and into a prearranged taxi to the airport.

The journey was swift and uneventful, as was check-in. John and Rose took their seats in the plane and shared a kiss, then another when the plane started to taxi, and a much longer one when it was in the air. Their embraces grew more frequent and passionate after that, to the point of impropriety, until finally one of their consternated fellow passengers sent a steward over to tell them to knock it off. They sunk back into their seats red-faced, but once she was sure nobody was looking, Rose turned to him and mimed sucking his cock. John had to cover his mouth to stifle his giggles.

Rose briefly considered the merits of joining the mile-high club when John went to the toilet, but the steward shot a sharp look her way as though reading her mind. She feigned interest in the in-flight magazine and considered doing it on the return flight

When the plane touched down on the main island of the archipelago it was early evening, local time. Rose and John had planned their sleep so that their body clocks were adjusted, so they had energy enough to find the docks and arrange a crossing to the little island that would be their final destination.

The boat they found was beautifully maintained and appointed, clearly designed with the tourist trade in mind. Rose had romantic visions of swooning in John's arms on the prow, but to her utter annoyance she found herself seasick shortly after they embarked. Their voyage was spent with her heaving over the side while John rubbed her back. She felt better as they got closer to the shore, and before they docked she gargled a bottle of water and managed a brief swoon.

The hotel was right on the beach, with a pebble path winding from the docks to its porch. They followed it up to the front door, went into the lobby, and were effusively greeted by the bellhop. He summoned a porter while they checked in, who disappeared upstairs with their bags, returning a moment later via what they could only assume was some sort of magic. Check-in complete, the porter guided them along staircases and hallways to the bridal suite.

John and Rose gasped when he showed them inside. A huge window overlooked the beach and the sea. The stars twinkled in the dusky sky, and they could see the lights of ships and buildings on the main island. They were close enough to the shore that they could hear the whisper of water over sand and from the forest that encircled the hotel on its other sides, the rustling of palm leaves.

John tipped the porter after the man showed them around the room; he thanked them, and said that a late dinner or room service was available whenever they wanted it. He left with a smile and discreetly clicked the door shut behind himself.

The newly-weds fell upon one another. They tangled up against a wall, kissing in short, sharp bursts as though they were both burning hot and brief contact was all they could bear. Rose bit down on John's lip; he roughly groped her breast through layers of cotton and lace. His other hand tugged at her pants, but she groaned for him to wait even though she wanted to do exactly the same to him. She shoved him away from her, shooed him into the bathroom and shut the door on him.

John pressed his ear to the door and heard a case being unzipped and fabric rustling. After a few minutes, Rose called for him to come in. He pushed open the door and found her in her wedding dress, as beautiful as she'd been the previous day. It was a different kind of beauty, granted; she lacked the artful make-up and her hair was somewhat flyaway and travel-worn rather than up in an elegant chignon. The 'blushing' part of 'blushing bride' was more from outright lust than shy coquetteishness, and her lips were gleaming wet where she'd been licking them. Most importantly, on their wedding day, she hadn't lifted the hem of her dress to show off her white suspender stockings and silky panties, with a damp spot slowly spreading across the latter.

John could have shoved her onto the bed right then and there, but he refrained, because the dress was a gorgeous thing that deserved more respect than to be ruined by the whims of mere passion. He waited until she'd stripped back down to her underwear, and then he took her, pushing her into the bed with a squeal from her and a growl of mock ferocity from him. John covered her with his body and licked her, kissed her, fondled her, groped her, because she was a gorgeous thing who could be ruined by the whims of mere passion over and over and still remain as gorgeous as she ever was.

He slipped a hand behind her back and unsnapped her bra. He brought the other down to her panties and shoved it beneath their waistband, curving his index finger to rub her slippery pussy. She arched into him, groaning, and he pushed it between her lips, feeling the heat inside her.

John needed her. He reared up, kicked off his shoes and yanked down his pants and briefs together. He bent over her again, kissed her while pushing aside her panties, and then slammed into her with one firm thrust. She screamed and wrapped her arms around him as he pulled back. His cock pierced her pussy a second time, almost painfully fast. He was in his rhythm now and Rose could move with it, could take him in all the ways she liked to when they were having sex at its most primal. She knew he couldn't last; he was too consumed with his desire to unite with her as physically as he was spiritually. She just clung to him, determined to let him have his moment.

She was moaning and running her fingers through her hair and his when he came. She was pressed tight to him: legs crossed around his hips, her nipples poking into his chest. She felt him pulse inside her while he yelled her name, then he buried his head in her shoulder and shuddered. He looked into her eyes with a sheepish grin, knowing she wasn't satisfied, but she just smiled back at him. Rose uncrossed her legs and unlocked her arms, gave him a kiss on the cheek and let him roll off her. John stared up at the bed's canopy with a dreamy look on his face.

She gave him a moment to relax, then guided his hand down to her crotch, where he began to slowly rub her. His fingers were a poor substitute for his dick, but they kept her hot and kept that tingle deep inside her going, ready for when she had the real thing back in working order. To that end she closed her fingers around it and stroked. John flinched, but she was gentle, and soon he was stiffening again, getting hard and huge in her grip.

She let go and spread her legs. John took his hand away from her pussy and went round to face her. She looked so naughty, with her panties to one side and her pussy swollen with arousal, pink, slippery and leaking his cum. He lowered himself and slid inside again.

He was almost as vigorous as before, but much more controlled and focused. It was her pleasure that mattered this time. His strokes were quick and even, and she could react to him in perfect time. He played with her breasts, loving the way her nipples reacted to his touch. She reached down and rubbed the place where they conjoined: a thumb on her clit and two fingers on the shaft of his cock. Simultaneously, she reached behind him with her other hand to massage his balls and perineum.

Rose could feel herself getting closer to coming with every thrust. The tingle inside her turned into a little knot of pressure, one that she had to spend more energy to contain the longer she tried. She tangled her hands in the sheets, ground her hips against John's and gasped, moaned, screamed for him to do her harder. At last she could hold it in no longer. The pressure burst outwards, overwhelmed her, and sent her sinking into the blankets with her eyelids fluttering and heat raging through her loins.

She recovered enough to kiss John's neck and stroke his back while he finished inside her. His second climax was less sudden and powerful than his first, and certainly less voluminous. It had been more drawn out though, and the knowledge that her pleasure was tied to his more than made up for it. He moaned as his cock twitched and added his seed to the load he'd already filled her with.

They stayed joined together as long as they could, until John's cock softened and drooped out of Rose. They rolled onto their sides and wrapped their legs together, where they kissed and whispered about their adoration for each other.

Such heavy exertion combined with their journey (plus Rose's ordeal on the boat) had left them famished. Rose took a shower while John consulted the room service menu and ordered up a snack tray. She came back pink and naked, with her hair in a towel and smelling of soap. She crawled into bed with John and snuggled up to him for a couple of minutes before he went to wash too. He heard her answer the door while he was drying himself off, and when he came out she was in bed wearing panties and his shirt, tucking into the tray. He climbed in beside her, and their eyelids grew heavy as they polished off the food.

When they were done, Rose set it aside and sighed, sleepy and content. She took the towel off her head, undressed again, and sank into the pillows. Bidding John good-night, told him she loved him and closed her eyes. There was a switch for the lights above John's head. He reached up, clicked them off, wrapped his arms around her, and joined her in sleep.

Morning came with the sound of seabirds. They and the sunlight on her face woke Rose. She opened her eyes, startled, as is usual when one finds oneself waking in an unfamiliar place. Then she remembered, smiled, and let her eyes droop shut again. She dozed for a bit, came to a second time, and performed the standard human boot-up routine. Awake: Check. Breathing: Check. Able to move: Check. Then the new parameter, married: Oh, very check. A delicious reverie of the previous night told her just how married she was, and she couldn't wait to make doubly sure.

The lucky fella was behind her, snoring gently in her ear. His hands were still around her, his chest flush against her back, and a little lower, something was poking her thigh. Perfect. She nudged John awake, eliciting sleepy protests from him, and asked him whether he was up for a matinee performance.

John was very much ready. He put his hand in the crook of her uppermost knee and lifted her leg while she rolled back the blankets. His cock found her hole and he thrust into her. They made unhurried love; one of Rose's hands caressed his face, while the fingers of the other rubbed her clit. He supported them with his right arm, and played with her breasts with his free hand, squeezing and kneading her soft flesh, pinching and rolling her nipples between his fingers. John felt his balls contract and his buttocks tense before she could come. Although his orgasm left him pleasantly drained he pulled out of her, rolled her onto her back and waited for her to open her legs so he could finish her off with his tongue. He could taste himself in her, but that was irrelevant. All he needed to know was that she had taken her pleasure from him.

She could hardly fail to climax from his licks, which lacked raw talent but had much practice and enthusiasm behind them. When she was done, she pulled him into her arms and teased him for his lack of stamina. He riposted with the fact that he'd last longer as the day wore on. She told him that he was assuming too much, to which he replied that he doubted she could go with just one fuck a day. She hit him with a pillow.

They could have spent the entire day arguing in each other's clutch, but the day was wearing on and an expensive honeymoon was passing them by. They got out of bed and showered, this time together. True to John's words, the sight of themselves naked, wet, and soaped up destroyed any resistance to another session. He pushed Rose up against the wall and lifted – surprising himself with the strength his passion lent him – clean off the ground while hot water cascaded down around them. This time, she came before him.

Despite the added mess, they managed to get clean and toweled themselves off, then dressed and went down for breakfast. The meal was as delicious as the snacks last night had been, even without their ardour to enhance the flavour. After they'd eaten their fill, they left the hotel to explore the island.

It was a simple enough place: a long-dead and much eroded volcano with a ring of beach and reefs built up around it. The hotel staff and guests and (the hotel staff said) the citizens of a tiny fishing hamlet were the only inhabitants. John and Rose walked around half the island without meeting another soul. They played in the sand, splashed through the surf and found pretty shells for each other, which, not wanting to disrupt any ecosystems, they admired and left behind.

When they covered enough of the beach to run into the little cluster of buildings that was the hamlet, it was almost a shock to encounter another person. One of the fishermen was busy hauling in his catch. He called them over and treated them to fresh-caught shrimp, which he de-veined and cooked on skewers over a charcoal fire-pit. They were delicious: sweet and salty at the same time, and he fed John and Rose enough to make them an entire lunch for nothing more than the promise that they eat the prawn cocktail and fish platter for their dinner that evening, as the hotel was his main customer.

They thanked the fisherman profusely and continued on their way. What they'd thought was half the circumference of the island turned out to be a lot less; the place was deceptively large. They kept up their playful antics on the way back, but by the time the hotel came into view they were trudging, and they were very glad to pull off their sandy shoes and socks and sit on the veranda with a lemonade each.

They washed for dinner, and as promised they had the prawn cocktail as an aperitif and the fish platter for their main course. After desert, they sat in the hotel bar and chatted with the other guests before they went to bed, tired but not entirely satisfied. An hour of vigorous sex solved that, though, and they went to sleep exhausted and supremely satisfied.

The next day they asked the staff for advice on exploring the middle of the island, and were told that as long as they stayed away from any snakes or spiders they'd be fine. They took a picnic lunch and trekked deep into the woods. They got lost without actually being lost, since they could always follow the sound of the sea back to the beach, and tacked up here and there were signs pointing back to the hotel. They saw and avoided a few spiders, but no snakes.

Shortly after they'd had lunch and walked on, they stopped to catch their breath. The meal had made them more sluggish than they'd expected. Rose rested against a tree, and John leaned in to kiss her. Things spiraled from there. Rose ended up with her palms flat against the tree's trunk, her arse thrust out and her shorts and panties around her ankles. John was similarly dishabille, and he screwed her with a ferocity not unlike the kind he'd displayed on their first night. They'd rarely had sex outside of a bedroom before, and never outside the privacy of a house. The chance of being caught, however remote it might be, was exhilarating. Rose almost wanted to be caught, and she came with a scream that send birds rocketing out of the trees in a panic before John could cover her mouth. He climaxed with a more subdued moan, shooting his cum deep inside her. 

Rose could feel it leaking out into her panties on the walk back, and she needled John about it until he asked her whether she'd have preferred it up the back of her shirt. She got quite cross at that and told him that a real gentleman would have pulled out and aimed away from her. He retorted that a real lady probably wouldn't have dropped her pants and begged for sex in what was technically public in the first place. She said that he should shut the fuck up, and was instantly furious at her pathetic response. When they got back to the hotel they stormed away from each other in silence, he to the courtyard to sulkily read a book, she to their room to clean up and then sit on the bed smouldering at his idiocy.

It was their first quarrel as married couple, and it ended when John went up to the bridal suite, timidly tapped on the door and went inside. He began to say sorry; Rose interrupted him to say it first. He said it wasn't her fault, she said it wasn't his, and soon they were in each other's arms, tearfully apologising for spoiling what should have been a romantic moment and agreeing that it was nobody's fault, that they'd been keyed up on adrenaline and subconsciously guilty about what they'd done. They had nothing to feel guilty about, she said, and that what they'd done had felt good and hurt no-one. John suggested that they should try again tomorrow, then kissed her deeply. She melted into him, and when they broke apart she asked where they should try it. They came up with a few ideas together. Things spiraled from there.

They developed a routine after that day. Outdoors was for fucking: raw, animalistic sex initiated whenever the opportunity presented itself. They fucked against trees, on flat rocks, on towels behind sandy dunes. Once, memorably, they fucked in the lee of a cliff while a sudden tropical storm thundered around them, lent lust by the genuine fear that they were going to die struck by lightning or buried in a mudslide. They'd fucked when it cleared, in joy that they'd survived, both screaming the other's name and how much they loved them.

Their room, on the other hand, was for making love. The distinction was clear. Fucking involved a lot of shouting and screaming - muffled when they thought they might be heard - and it was hard, fast and sometimes John finished too quickly for Rose's liking. Sometimes they got dirty, sometimes scratched. Making love was all about them lying on soft, clean sheets or another comfortable spot in the room, while John's cock slowly slipped in and out of Rose's pussy, building them up to long, luxurious crescendos. It meant that they gave of themselves without expecting anything back. Sometimes Rose would be reading in the little chair by the window, then John's head would be beneath her skirt, her panties to the side and his tongue on her clit. Sometimes he'd be watching TV before they slept and would feel her wriggle under the bedsheets and take his cock into her mouth.

They made love in dozens of positions – an app on Rose's phone picked ones at random for them – some of which would have made a contortionist wince. They tried it standing up, with her on all fours, with him on his, with her writhing in his lap, grinding hard against his crotch. They made love in the jacuzzi-sized bath that accompanied their shower, touching each other underneath the water and trying to hold their breath long enough to use their mouths. They concluded that neither of them really had the lung capacity needed.

Rose and John made trips off the island to the more populated areas of the archipelago. They went to bars and nightclubs, flirted with and teased each other so much that they couldn't keep their hands to themselves on the boat ride back. They were frequently reduced to feeling each other up in the hotel stairwells before they stumbled back into their room to complete the evening's entertainment.

They visited cultural and historical sites, natural beauty spots and museums. They watched incomprehensible but deeply romantic French films in ancient, crumbling cinemas, always kissing when the romantic leads did. They ate the local cuisine in places from a five star hotel that required their most elegant formalwear, and that made them both cringe when the bill arrived after desert, to a floating eatery that crammed them onto a long trestle table alongside countless other people. They went from town to town trying out every attraction they could find; they water-skied, paraglided, played volleyball, badminton and spent a day at a carnival that seemed too big to exist anywhere, let alone the tiny island it was on. Every day they found something new to see or do, every night they went to sleep as close to bliss as two people can come.

They never mustered up the courage to have full, penetrative sex in any of the towns they went to, but in secluded alleys and shady courtyards the very real chance of being discovered led Rose to find out just how quickly and effectively she could suck John off, and he how fast he could eat her out.

Time passed, as it does, and one evening saw John and Rose packing their bags ready for the early flight back home the next day. They slept, woke to a pink-fingered dawn, and blearily carried their bags down to the dining hall where the staff gave them a send-off breakfast. After they'd eaten and checked out, they left and took the ferry as they'd done so many times before. They alighted on the main island and made their way to the airport, checked in and prepared for the return to normality.

Aboard the plane, Rose remembered her promise to herself to join the mile high club. It seemed an age ago when she'd made it. She whispered her idea to John, then got up and headed to the bathroom. A minute later he joined her. They could barely stand in it together, and it was far too cramped for sex of any kind. They settled for a mutual handjob that they were too nervous to finish and left horny and embarrassed, but glad they'd tried.

Married life brought them entirely back to the waking world. Rose's mother could have supported them in luxurious idleness for the rest of their lives, but they wanted to strike out on their own. To that end Rose returned to studying for her psychology degree and John got a job as a software tester, bullshitting his way through the interview with the little scraps of coding knowledge he had. They rented an apartment and set about turning it into a home. John cooked, Rose cleaned, they both worked to decorate it when they had free time. Eventually, they had a place they could call theirs, for as long as they could keep paying the rent, at least.

They also had a lot of sex. It was calmer, more vanilla and less frequent than on their honeymoon, but to their relief it never felt like a duty or a chore, something they had to do now that they were married. Eventually though, it began to get samey. Not boring - because it could never be boring - but not quite as exciting. They'd lost the adventurousness that had gotten them fucking outside a few months ago. Half an hour of the missionary position and then to bed was about all they did when they did it.

Rose decided it was time for a change. She advanced one of her fantasies to John. He refused outright to do it. She pleaded with him, begged him even, but he stood firm, saying it was far too dangerous. He bought a copy of Cosmo ('Fifty tips to spice up your sex life!'), the contents of which Rose rolled her eyes at before she chucked it in the bin. None of the 'Spine tingling secrets to share with your man!' tingled her spine at all. Not like her fantasy did. She showed John sites which explained the risks and told him how to do it safely. She said that she'd sign a note saying that if anything went wrong it wasn't his fault. He sighed, said that wouldn't be necessary and read the sites, grimacing at each risk, heartily agreeing with all the warnings that said not to try it and making careful notes on every safety tip. At last, when he thought he was as ready as he could be, they planned a night to make it happen.

Rose lay on the bed in semi-darkness, with candles flickering and guttering around the room. It was total darkness for her though, because she had a blindfold on. Aside from that and her favourite pink scarf, she was completely naked. Her pussy was wet. She'd asked John to leave her for ten minutes to ramp up the anticipation, and she hadn't been able to resist touching herself.

She heard the door creak open. John came in, and his cock hardened at the sight of her sprawled out, her thighs and mound slick with her juices. His heart was thudding in his chest though, and he frowned when he saw the scarf. He stripped, crossed the room, and climbed onto the bed. He asked her if she still wanted to go through with what he thought was an insane plan, and in a voice made husky by lust and impatience she told him yes.

John steeled himself and began by kissing her. If everything went wrong he wanted that at least. While their lips were locked and their tongues entwined, he wrapped the trailing end of her scarf around his hand. He broke the kiss, told her to take a deep breath and pulled.

The scarf tightened around Rose's neck, and she let out a gasp before she realised that she was wasting precious oxygen. She managed to take one last desperate, wheezing breath before her throat constricted entirely and she was at John's mercy.

John grabbed his watch from the bedside table and set the timer for one minute, the longest he'd agreed to let her go without breathing. He put it down where he could see it clearly and thrust his cock into her cunt. She gave a gurgle that might otherwise have been a moan. Her walls seemed to grip him more tightly and ripple faster around his shaft than they'd ever done before, whether through her excitement, oxygen deprivation or his imagination he didn't know. He fucked her quickly, angled how she liked it, with the fingers on one hand rubbing her clitoris and the other squeezing her nipples. He bent over her and kissed her neck, the skin of which was unnaturally tight and worryingly cold. He needed her to come as fast as she could, so that she wasn't in any more danger than she had to be.

Rose was fine for fifteen seconds. The sex was just sex for that time, unusually good, enthusiastic sex, but still sex. Then her lungs started to ache, then to burn. She tried not to thrash, knowing that she'd waste her air, but her chest heaved up and down and her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the scarf. She didn't have to resort to her safety action (three sharp thumps on the mattress) though, and John kept the noose tight. After forty-five seconds she slumped back, her muscles beginning to ache, but there was a kind of euphoria spreading through her as well. She felt light, floaty, no mattress supporting her, and John's cock wasn't just in her pussy, it filled her entire being. Huge great rivers of pleasure rolled across her, filled by the tributaries from her snatch, her clit, her nipples, that spot on her neck where his lips were. Impossibly coloured lights danced in her vision, and she felt that if she could just reach out and touch one....

John's watch bleeped, the pressure on her neck disappeared in an instant and her vagus nerve took over. She sucked in a massive shuddering lungful of breath while John watched the colour return to her cheeks. When she could, she reminded him that she had just ten seconds to breathe, the minimum he'd agreed upon, and told him to keep fucking her. He did so, slower than before to make sure she could breathe okay, but he kept his rhythm and kept pushing her towards her peak. Ten seconds passed; he put another minute on his watch and pulled her scarf tight again.

Rose hadn't fully reoxygenated, and she slipped into her stupor quicker this time, while her lungs struggled and spasmed to breathe out through an exit that wasn't there. Tiny strangulated squeaks of ecstasy escaped her. The waves of pleasure came back, the floatiness, the lights, then she heard a far-off beep, her scarf was loose and John was ordering her to breathe. She did, then she was strangled. A minute of that, then breath. It was getting hard to think. No breath. Tingling warmth all through her. John's cock still inside her: hard, thrusting, a tether to reality and an incitement to drift further away. Breath. Asphyxish... aphyxion... choked.

She lost track of how many times the cycle repeated. Each separate instance of breathlessness melded into one continuous stream of bliss, until something huge, powerful and wonderful tore through her and filled her head with blinding whiteness. She felt her limbs writhing, and John moving on top of her. His dick was like a white hot poker that inflicted pleasure rather than pain. She tried to scream, but of course she couldn't.

John had his eyes shut, his hands curled into tight fists, and was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. He was on the verge of coming, but he couldn't afford that. Rose had to come first, that was the deal. He felt her struggling under him and opened his eyes in an instant, terrified that he would witness her death-throes, but he'd seen her orgasm a hundred times before. He let the scarf go loose and whipped it off her neck. She drew breath. Oxygen flooded her cells and reignited her climax, and she let it out in a long, thin scream. John kept pumping her until she'd fallen silent and fallen back, her chest fluttering, then he came with a shout that had in it all his fear, relief and frustration at her stubbornness and foolhardy bravery.

He pulled out of her, took off her blindfold and made sure she had all her faculties intact. He made her follow his finger with her eyes, had her take several deep breaths and then count to ten forwards and backwards, which she did in a hoarse, scratchy whisper. So assured he went and sat on the end of the bed and cried. She came up behind him and asked him what was wrong. He told her. He told her how scared he was that he might have killed her. How he was terrified of never waking up with her beside him again, of never hearing her murmur in her sleep again, of never again bringing her coffee and kissing her on the cheek while she pored over her books, of the fact that he might have taken off her blindfold and seen the lively sparkle she always had in her eyes go out.

Rose sniffled, then hurled herself against him and pressed her face against his shoulder, heaving huge, chest-wracking sobs. She looked up and said that she was sorry for pressuring him into it, but that she had to know what it was like, and now she knew it was pretty good, but nowhere near as good as holding his hand while they walked together, or listening to him talking about all the goofy shit he was into, or sitting next to him on the sofa. She promised that she'd never risk another second of their time together.

John turned to her and gave her a watery smile. He said that if she ever wanted something badly enough, he'd do it for her, but right now she was going to do what he wanted and sit still. He disappeared and came back with a pot of soothing cream and a bottle of cough syrup. He rubbed the cream into her bruised neck and made her swallow a spoonful of the syrup to relieve her sore throat. When he was sure she could breathe easily, he tucked her up in bed, turned off the lights and settled in beside her, giving her a quick goodnight kiss.

In the darkness, Rose smiled. She'd been right about one thing: They had needed some adventure in their sex life. She imagined that John would be loathe to let things get stale again, out of fear that she'd try something like that again. Things would be much more interesting, but the most important thing was that it had brought them together. She shifted closer to John, shut her eyes and slept. In her dreams, he danced with her in a field of impossible lights.

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to the requester and my ever-ready with the red pencil (or in this case, yellow highlighter) proofreader Pond. Keep an eye out for my future fics by following me at geistygeist.tumblr.com!


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